Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club)

by Denise Grover Swank

  Dwelling on that will only drop me down a well of grief, though, so I try not to think about it.

  “What does that wave mean?” I ask as I grab a glass and fill it with ice and water. “Does that mean they skipped you again or the food sucked?”

  “How many sandwiches can a man eat?” he grumbles.

  “I’ve eaten quite a few sandwiches in my life. It beats canned soup.”

  He makes a face and shrugs. “You got home later than usual.”

  “I had a thing after work.”

  His rheumy eyes brighten. “A thing?”

  I laugh as I set the glass in front of him. “Simmer down now. Butterfly Buddies accepted my application. I met my new buddy today.”

  He narrows his eyes in confusion. “You sent in that application ages ago. They just called you?”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying not to dwell on the insecurities and bitterness that his observation dredges up.

  When you are charged with a crime, you get your sentence and do your time. When you get out, you’re free to join the rest of society. That’s nice in theory, but every application you fill out for the rest of your life, from housing to jobs to Butterfly Buddies, will ask if you’re a convicted felon. And for the rest of my life, I will always have to check “yes.”

  For the rest of my life, I will pay for a stupid-ass mistake I made as a twenty-year-old kid. A mistake that didn’t catch up to me until I was arrested at twenty-nine, because it turns out there is no statute of limitations in North Carolina when it comes to a felony charge.

  The microwave dings, and I pull out Roger’s dinner, burning my fingers as I hasten it to the table. It plops out of my grasp, and I’m thankful for the plastic film covering it so it doesn’t fling out everywhere. I grab an extra fork and place it next to the meal, frowning.

  Roger tries to remove the film, but his hands are shaking so much he can’t grasp the edge.

  I step in and take off the cover. “You taking your meds, Roger?”

  “Yeah,” he grunts, but I’m not reassured.

  “Medicare still covering everything?”

  He has Parkinson’s, and his medication is expensive. Medicare sometimes makes changes to which prescriptions it covers, leaving him in a bind without a much-needed medication. I’ve gotten it straightened out before for him. I have no qualms about stepping in again, especially since Roger has no one to intercede on his behalf. He never had kids, and he’s outlived his wife and his siblings.

  “Yeah, I got everything,” he says in defeat.

  “Sounds like you need another trip to the doctor. Maybe he can increase the dose.”

  He shrugs. If he’s telling the truth about taking his meds, then his Parkinson’s is progressing. He hates his disease and barely acknowledges he has it. Pushing him now won’t get him to admit he needs to make an appointment. I’ll have to ask again later.

  I drop the plastic into the trash can and sit in front of my now-lukewarm meal, not that I’m complaining. I’d rather be eating tasteless imitation cardboard with Roger than a five-star Michelin meal alone.

  “So, tell me about your buddy,” Roger says as he digs his fork into his mashed potatoes.

  “He’s a six-year-old boy named Aidan, and he’s funny as hell, even if he doesn’t intend to be.” A smile tweaks the corners of my mouth. “He’s a good kid. I like him.”

  “Reminds you of Ben, huh?”

  I hesitate. “Yeah. A lot in some ways, not so much in others.”

  “How old is Ben now?”

  I swallow, hating to think about the years I’ve lost with my nephew. “Fourteen.”

  “He was eight when you got arrested?”

  “Yep,” I say warily, hunching over my plastic tray. I’ve told him all of this, and Roger’s not senile, which means he’s working his way up to a point.

  “Maybe you should try calling your sister again.”

  And there it is.

  “I’ve called her multiple times, Roger. She won’t change her mind.”

  “When was the last time you tried?”

  “Two Christmases ago,” I say in exasperation. “She made it very clear she wasn’t feeling generous of heart. In fact, I think her exact words were, ‘Don’t call here again.’”

  “You should try anyway,” Roger says. “Maybe you’ll get a Christmas miracle.”

  I look up from my food and take in Roger’s cloudy eyes “I know what you’re doing, and you need to let it go.”

  “I should hope you know what I’m doing,” Roger scoffs. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

  “When were you ever subtle, Roger Ditmore?” a woman’s voice calls from outside the door, and then Mrs. Rosa appears, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled up into a loose, messy bun. She’s barely fifty, but she’s wearing a housedress like the one my grandmother used to wear. It’s covered with an apron that says, “Life is short! Lick the bowl!” She has black orthopedic shoes on her feet, and she’s carrying a pie plate in both hands. “Today’s pie is butter pecan.”

  “My favorite,” Roger says.

  “I know,” she says impatiently as she sets the pie tin on the table.

  “Hey,” Roger protests. “Half the pie’s gone!”

  “I had a few people who only wanted a slice.” She shrugs and lifts her hands in a what are you gonna do motion.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Roger grumps as he pushes his partially eaten meatloaf dinner to the side and digs his fork into one of the pieces of pie. “Who stops at one slice?”

  “Hey,” she says, pulling the pie tin from him. “You’re not a five-year-old. You know better. Eat your dinner first.”

  Roger grumbles about the unfairness of life, but he returns his attention to his plastic tray, stabbing several green beans with his fork.

  “What were you two talking about before I walked in?” Her dark eyes glint with amusement. She clearly overheard part of our conversation, and she’s waiting to see what I’ll admit to.

  Releasing a sigh, I push my tray away. I could try to dodge her questions, but that never works with her. Better to get this out of the way. “My sister.”

  Her forehead creases with a frown. “How about I bake a lovely cake and have it sent to her? We’ll tell her it’s from you. No one can stay bitter when they’re eating one of my cakes.”

  Roger leans over to sneakily scoop up a bite of pie, then pops it into his mouth and nods. “She has a point,” he says past his mouthful.

  I expect Mrs. Rosa to scold him, but she’s too busy preening over his compliment. Roger is like Scrooge McDuck when it comes to praise.

  “A cake isn’t gonna solve this,” I say gently. “If I’d thought there was a single chance in hell it would, I’d have had you make your red velvet, and I would have personally delivered it with a marching band.”

  A pensive look crosses her face. “A string quartet would go better with the red velvet. The vanilla sprinkle seems more like a marching band type cake.”

  “Or the rainbow layer,” Roger says.

  She tilts her head to the side in consideration. “True.”

  I push out a breath. “It doesn’t matter what kind of cake or pie, or what type of musical group shows up at Amanda’s house. She’s never going to forgive me for getting arrested and going to prison.”

  My neighbors are silent for several seconds before Mrs. Rosa says quietly, “Forever’s a long time, dear.”

  Maybe so, but Amanda can hold a grudge like nobody’s business. Add in the fact that we never got along much before my conviction, and it’s pretty much hopeless.

  “Jace got a buddy,” Roger says, then takes the last bite of his meal and pushes the plastic tray to the side, making way for the pie.

  Mrs. Rosa is too busy pinning me with a scrutinizing gaze to protest. “You made a friend, Jace?” she asks, like I just came home from my first day at preschool.

  “A buddy,” I say. “Through Butterfly Buddies.”

  “They finally responded?” she marvels. />
  My jaw drops. “You knew I applied?”

  “Of course,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Roger told me.”

  He grimaces, then shrugs.

  Maybe I should be annoyed that they’ve clearly been gossiping about me, but it’s not really gossip. They care about me.

  Maybe it’s weird that I’m a thirty-five-year-old man and my best friends are an eighty-seven-year-old retiree making do on a tiny social security check, a fifty-something woman who runs an illegal bakery out of her kitchen while living on disability, and a black cat who’s sort of an asshole. But it sure beats being alone.

  Mrs. Rosa takes a seat, and I grab another fork and a carton of milk out of my fridge. Roger likes to eat his dessert with milk, while Mrs. Rosa and I prefer coffee—which I already brewed, figuring she’d drop by since I didn’t see her last night. We all sit at the table and dig into the pie as I talk about Aidan. Then, against my better judgment, I tell them about my hot chocolate outing with Mary and her son.

  Mrs. Rosa narrows her eyes. “You like this girl.”

  I snort. “How can you get away with calling her a girl? You’re barely old enough to be my mother.”

  Roger points his fork at me. “And she’d’ve been a young mother at that.”

  Mrs. Rosa eyes him like he’s a changeling. Two compliments in one night. I partially wonder if he’s a changeling myself.

  “She’s not a girl,” I say with a grunt. “She’s a woman.” All woman.

  Her eyes light up.

  “You stop that right now,” I say.

  “You like her.”

  “She’s Aidan’s mother.”

  “You like her,” Mrs. Rosa says, her voice rising an octave.

  “I don’t want to screw this up,” I say. “Butterfly Buddies only chose me because they’re desperate. Besides, I get the impression Mary doesn’t know about my past, and she’s definitely not the type of woman who can let something like that go. So not only is there no future with Mary O’Shea, but I suspect my time as her son’s buddy will be short-lived too.”

  I realize that I need to be the one to tell Mary, and soon. The closer I get to Aidan, the harder it will be to disengage. He might not get attached to me, but I know stability is important to him. Even more so because his life has been so turbulent lately.

  “You’re thinking too much,” Mrs. Rosa says, patting my hand. “You’re a lovely boy. She should be lucky to have you.”

  I laugh at that. To hear her tell it, I’m a high schooler thinking about asking Mary out to prom. Not an ex-con interested in a lawyer who thrives on control—which has to be driving her crazy, given that her husband has deserted them, her son has special needs, and she’s just moved and changed her job. Oh, and her son thinks she’s the biggest liar on the planet for letting him believe Santa was real.

  Mary O’Shea’s life is not only out of control—it’s a fiery mass plummeting to Earth.

  Danger. Do not engage.

  My life is enough of a mess. I don’t need to get mixed up in someone else’s. Yet, when I think about the vulnerable look in Mary’s eyes, I still want to help her.

  And when I think of the lust I saw there, I want to strip her naked.

  That is why I need to come clean with her, because screwing Mary O’Shea is the worst idea I’ve had in years. I suspect Mary is unraveling, and all it will take is one hard tug for her to come undone.

  I’m a fuckup who broke his mother’s heart so thoroughly it killed her. I’m in no shape to help anyone put their life back together. Hell, I can’t even duct-tape my own.

  Not that Mary O’Shea would be interested in a man like me. I’m sure she lives in a restored bungalow with matching furniture and curtains and a mountain of throw pillows. The kind of house I’d work on but could never afford to live in. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a leaky shower, furnished with thrift store finds. A woman like her would never see me as anything more than a one-night stand, if that.

  I’ve had plenty of one-night stands, especially since I got out of prison, but for some reason, it bothers me to think of Mary that way.

  “There, there,” Mrs. Rosa says, patting my hand again. “It will all work out.”

  “There’s nothing to work out.” I pull my hand away, ready to change the subject. “Hey, did I mention that I got a promotion? I start next week.”

  Roger wants to hear all about it, and so does Mrs. Rosa, but the gleam in her eyes lets me know she’s onto me, and we’re only discussing my new responsibilities because she’s allowed it.

  As if the topic of Mary O’Shea is merely being set aside for the time being, to be resurrected later.

  As if there were something wrong with my life the way it is, something Mary O’Shea might be able to fix.

  But I like my life just fine. It’s quiet and predictable, and there’s no need to consider changing it.

  So why can’t I get the image of a naked Mary, lying on her silky sheets and begging me to fuck her, out of my head?

  I’m telling her about my incarceration. Tomorrow.

  Better to put an end to this now, before I get attached to Aidan.

  Or to both of them.

  Chapter Five

  Mary

  For some reason, I find myself agreeing to join Nicole’s club. She has a weird kind of power over me. Maybe it’s because she sincerely doesn’t care what anyone thinks, and part of me admires that. No, all of me admires that. There’s an art to not caring, and it’s one I’m pretty sure I’ll never master, if only because it’s the kind of thing where studying doesn’t get you very far. But with her as my teacher…

  Maybe I can learn to care slightly less.

  Maybe I can discover who I want to be beneath all those layers of worrying about what other people think.

  Plus, a little voice in my head whispers that all this rule following, all this control I’ve sought and wielded hasn’t gotten me very far. It hasn’t made me happy or secure, the way Mom promised it would. Maybe it’s time to try something different.

  Like listening to a guru with pink hair and an attitude problem.

  “Do you have any contact with Glenn?” Nicole asks.

  I shrug. “Not much. I got him to sign a separation agreement acknowledging that we’ve been living separately since January, so I’ll file the divorce papers after New Year’s.”

  “Good,” she says, flashing those sharp teeth. “That gives us time.”

  I don’t get a chance to ask what she means by that because she follows up with, “Why’d you marry a man who’d never made you come?”

  The question catches me off guard, but no more so than the answer that slips out. “He…asked.”

  “Oh, sweet Mary,” she says with a cackle that implies she doesn’t find me so sweet. “Don’t tell me you were a virgin when you met?”

  But from the way she says it, she already knows.

  Still, I feel my cheeks heat. “Lots of people marry their first.”

  Glenn had checked off all the items on my list: (1) handsome but not too handsome; (2) driven and ambitious; (3) wants kids; and (4) comes from a close family. He’d admitted to making a list of qualities he wanted in a partner too. It had been a matter of pride for us—we were the smart ones, the ones who had goals and strategically pursued them.

  But it had felt hollow at the core.

  I used to dance ballet when I was a girl, and the feeling I got in the middle of a performance, the unbridled joy and freedom of it, would have lit a bonfire. The spark I’d felt with Glenn probably wouldn’t have lit a candle. Actually, although I haven’t told anyone, certainly not my sisters, I was on the verge of breaking up with him when my parents died. After that…well, I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to take another risk, to make another change. Molly had chosen to live with Maisie anyway, not me, and it had felt like there should be a reason for that.

  Our marriage was empty from the beginning—a model-house kind of marriage—but I’m glad I went through with it. Beca
use otherwise I wouldn’t have had Aidan. And although my worry for Aidan is a weight that’s constantly pressing on my shoulders, it’s only because I love him with every bit of bone and whisper of soul I have.

  Nicole gives me a pointed look. “And lots of people live sad, frustrated little lives, but that’s clearly not enough for you. He’s not going to be a problem, is he? He hasn’t been sliding into your DMs?”

  I’m not quite sure what a DM is, but I’m not a total idiot. I know better than to say so.

  “I haven’t talked to him in a long time.” My chest gets a funny, heavy feeling, like an elephant is sitting on it. “In the beginning, I texted him a lot. Sent him pictures, told him about Aidan’s progress. I…hoped he’d change his mind.”

  My mind flashes to Glenn straightening the tag on his suitcase, saying, I’m not cut out for this. Having him was a mistake.

  Like he had buyer’s remorse, and our child was something he could return to the store.

  My hands ball into fists.

  “You wanted to stay married to him?” she asks in disgust.

  “Of course not,” I snap, “but I wanted Aidan to have a dad. We lost our father when Molly was still in high school, and I saw how hard it was for her.”

  “My dad left me when I was a kid,” Nicole says with a snort. “But he was a cheater and an idiot. Losing a dad doesn’t hurt as much as having a shit one.”

  Maybe she’s trying to be comforting, in as much as she’s capable of it, but the thing is, I’m not so sure I want Aidan to end up like Nicole, all sharp edges. He’s so innocent, so sweet-natured, and I worry what will happen when the world turns on him and shows its claws.

  Oh, so you’d rather he ended up like you and Maisie and Molly? Shocked to discover his father isn’t the person he thought?

  But I have enough issues without being attacked by my own thoughts, thank you very much, so I just give a little shake of my head. “I send him updates about Aidan every so often, but he rarely responds to them. He’s made it very clear he’s not interested in sharing custody. In fact, once it became clear to me how unlikely he was to change his mind, I asked him to sign over all parental rights. He didn’t hesitate, meaning any contact they have is on my terms now. His parents still want Aidan in their lives, though, and they’ve been taking him every other weekend.”